Tuesday, September 30, 2008

I’ve been in a commuter’s quandary ever since the unfortunate incident a few weeks ago where my ipod was boldly abducted from my vehicle, (allegedly) by the valet parking staff at the Omni Parker House in Boston.

Without my ipod I’ve been forced to go to some extreme measures to relieve myself of the insane thoughts that pass through my head during a 2-hour morning commute. One of those extreme measures came last week when I flicked on the radio to one of the Seacoast’s pop radio stations. Oh how I wish I hadn’t.

On this particular morning the DJs were reading an e-mail that had been penned by a very bright woman who identified herself as “By-the-Beach”. Apparently Ms. By-the-Beach had a problem that she thought warranted the counsel of the local DJs and the fine listeners in the seacoast region. Mind you, this isn’t NPR.

The quagmire was that Ms. By-the-Beach has a crush on her neighbor’s husband and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

Um…

As you can imagine, this was a fairly easy predicament for the DJs and listeners to solve. The phones were flooded with callers telling her to “get her own man” and to “leave the neighbor alone”. It was really very Jerry Springer.

Then the plot thickened…Ms. By-the-Beach divulged that she is pretty tight with her neighbors, which would seem to make the decision to leave them alone even easier, but not for Ms. By-the-Beach. Again the DJs readily solved this dilemma by telling her to “back off from the neighbors until she gets her feelings under control”.

I was utterly disgusted by this entire exchange, but it was like watching a train wreck, I couldn’t turn away. I suppose I was waiting for some vindication, someone to call the station and represent my view, “this is absurd, can you just play some Maroon 5 please”. But the vindication never came. I think I literally lost 3 IQ points for having listened to such nonsense.

On the remainder of the commute I pondered the type of person that would seriously write in to a pop radio station for advice. Then I pondered the type of person who actually needs to be told that it’s not a wise choice to have a crush on her married neighbor. Then I pondered the type of person that would ponder such things (oh wait, that's me). Anyway, I came up with three possible profiles for Ms. By-the-Beach:

1) This person is a complete idiot2) This person is in desperate need of attention3) This person is a complete idiot who is in desperate need of attention.

With Avery, it was Eucerin Cream on my walls, with Amelle it was pink glitter all over her body and my bathroom...Amaya's substance of choice is apparently powder...in my bed.

Sheets = washing machinePerpetrator = tubHere's the mug shot.

Awww...the powder almost looks like snow next to the snowmen, doesn't it?

.

What is that you say? Aren't I a little old for snowman sheets? No, I am not. They're manufactured in King size, which tells me that they are made for adults like myself, who are in touch with their youthful side.

.

Isn't it a little early for flannel snowman sheets? Yes, you got me it is. But it is Maine, it's cold here. Don't judge me.

"Desaturation" can't make our trip to the pumpkin farm on Saturday interesting. (though I do enjoy a little desaturation from time to time, don't you?)

Nor can "saturation" (there's a little voice in my head right now urging me to remove this picture, but you know what, I'm not listening to it.)

It is what it is. Pumpkin picking. Nothing interesting, humorous, or eventful in any way occurred during this adventure. (the voice is now telling me to scrap this whole post.)

And I have nothing witty, provocative, or the least bit interesting to say about any of the pictures I took that day. And if I'm honest, the only reason I'm really posting tonight is because I feel the need to get beyond my last post, which admittedly, was not written in my finest hour. I mean, poop talk, really. That's bad. Even for me. (the voice is telling me to hold back, I'm being too candid...don't tell them all your secrets!)

But if you got nothin' to say, you got nothin' to say. And I got nothin' to say. Except for that I'm sorry that I've wasted 45 seconds of your time with this nonsense. (and the voice is also sorry for leading you to believe that I might be schizophrenic, cause I'm not. Well, probably not.)

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I’ve cracked the shell of an age-old debate. I’ve single-handedly come up with the answer to a question that spans thousands of years. I have the answer to what inquiring minds want to know.

What is it you ask?

Well, I’ve solved the dilemma of expectant parents everywhere; I know how to determine the gender of a baby in the womb.

Really, I do. Seriously. It works. …and it’s my invention.

No, it’s not an ultrasound, we all know that Al Gore invented that. (Or was that the internet?) [snickering]

It boils down to this simple, yet highly scientific equation: (try to follow along)

Diarrhea = girlConstipation (or lack of diarrhea) = boy

Sorry to use the word “diarrhea” on this blog. I know it’s an unpleasant word. And I’m double-sorry if you happen to be eating while reading this. …or for that matter, DRINKING…like coffee or something…cause we all know that diarrhea is more like…well…you know…liquid…than a solid…actually a brown liquid [more snickering]. Um, am I twelve?

No, I just checked, I’m not.

Anyway. It’s so true and so proven that I challenge you to test this hypothesis on yourself, your friends, your mother, whoever and post you comments here!

This is my motto for pregnant women everywhere, “Toss the Chinese calendar and just look in the toilet!”

Catchy, huh?

Oh, and congratulations to the Gram Fam who just gave birth to a beautiful bouncing baby GIRL, who everyone thought was going to be a boy based on some nonsense about the way Jill was carrying and whom I correctly predicted would be a GIRL because of Jill’s fecal matter (which, yes, I felt justified in inquiring about).

Sunday, September 21, 2008

The sun had just kissed the tip of Cadillac Mountain on Saturday morning when the kids began asking for their beloved Sprite again. "Can we have it today, Mom?" they smiled hopefully.

Okay, it wasn't actually that early, but it was before breakfast.

"You haven't even eaten breakfast yet", I stalled. Then I remembered the excellent suggestions I had read in the blog comments earlier this week, "How about drinking Sprite with veggies?" Avery frowned. "You can have Sprite and broccoli", I cheerfully suggested. Avery looked like he was about to cry.

The problem became clear. What was suppose to be an occasional treat for eating vegetables would turn into torment for Avery and an every day demand for broccoli from Amelle. Amelle would gladly eat broccoli for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she could wash it down with Sprite. And Avery could never do it, the last time he tried to eat broccoli, it came right back up.

Defeated, I sighed, "Okay". The kids ran to the garage to fetch their 8 ounces of heaven.

I had to laugh yesterday afternoon when I spotted both cans in the refrigerator, one specially wrapped in a paper towel. Oh how they covet Sprite! I didn't have the heart to tell them that the Sprite was going to be flat and disgusting when they went to drink it (unless that paper towel trick somehow controls the loss of carbonation).

Then there was this act of joy, Amelle toasting Dirt's coffee with her Sprite!

Friday, September 19, 2008

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Two weeks ago Avery went to a sleep over party. 11 boys, camping out in the back yard, trampoline, WiiRockband, bon fire, movie on the side of the house, bowling...pure 9 year old boy bliss. When he arrived home the next afternoon I inquired about his night and the first thing that sprang from his lips was, "we got to drink soda!".

Soda? THAT is the excitement? Soda? His eyes were lit up like sparklers on the forth of July.

The following week, Avery asked me when he'd be old enough to drink soda. This question broke my heart.

I have never allowed the kids to drink soda. Diet, caffeine free, whatever - I haven't let them have any of it. (The only exception being the occasionalRoot beer float, which makes their eyeballs roll back into their heads in sheer pleasure). Call me a bad mother but they primarily drink water. They also drink Vitamin water, milk (plain or flavored), and occasionallycapri sun waters.

To me, soda is the work of the devil (not really, relax). It's just nasty stuff. Furthermore, I'm addicted to it. I'm a card-carrying member of FA (Frecsaholics Anonymous). Soda is bad. There's nothing good about it. So, why would I want my kids to have it? It would be like a crack-head giving their kids crack. For nine long years I've tried to protect them from it's evil, carbonated grasp.

Last week while I was at the grocery store, I picked up a 6-pack of mini-Sprite cans and thought that I'd surprise the kids with a soda some day. (I'm awesome, I know.) My dreams of hiding the Sprite in a high cabinet in the kitchen (maybe even the one above the refrigerator) and heroically whipping it out to brighten up the kids one day, was shattered as Avery shrieked "SPRITE!" from the driveway. He had indeed sniffed the substance through the aluminum can, through the plastic grocery bag (sorry Audra), and through the metal of my mini-van trunk.

"When can we have one?" they gleefully chanted.

I explained to them that the reason they can't have soda is because we're Christians and Christians aren't allowed to do anything fun or bad. Just kidding. I told them that I never let them have soda because it isn't healthy and no matter how old they are, I'll never want them to have things that are unhealthy. Having soda isn't about age (or religion), it's about good health.

I've seriously never seen them happier than they were for the next hour that it took them to nurse those 8 ounces of Sprite. They were even happy to recycle the cans without my prompting. For them, everything about soda drinking was worth savoring.

Forget Rockband for Christmas, I'm going to buy them each a 12 pack of soda and call it a day.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I was just catching up on blogs that I like to lurk (like reverb) and I see that I missed an opportunity to post on the concept of "SEVEN" yesterday. In the spirit of participation (rather than obedience), I'm going to post today. The instructions are:

Post your own blog today having something to do with the SEVENs theme and input your information into the Mister Linky's box below...c'mon. It'll be fun.SEVEN:

Seven is the number of grandchildren my mother has:

1.

2 & 3.4. 5. 6.7.

(Two is the number of kids she has. ...But that's a topic for another blog post...probably one on fertility or family planning)

Sunday, September 07, 2008

When I was in High School I was in the drama club and we did a production called, "Babies Having Babies", it was about teenage pregnancy. I played an 8-month pregnant High Schooler. I remember entering the stage with my overstuffed pillow belly and glancing into the audience only to spot my father's face, which was draped with horror. I expected pride, I got sheer terror. I guess he wasn't expecting to see his 16-year old daughter with a big pregnant belly.

I wonder what he'd think of his 7 year old granddaughter as a mother of two?

By almost all standards, this truly is a frigtening scene

This one is even more frightening. The baby looks like he's ready to nurse. I'm scared of him.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

Yesterday was the first day of school. I had one that was happy about that and one not so much. I also had one that was pitching a fit and in no state to be photographed.

Can you guess which is which?

And no, it's not the haircut that is bringing him down (though it is a terrible haircut). He got over the haircut yesterday. I love that about boys. They rebound really well from beauty mishaps.(compare last year)

I finally said something irresistibly funny which upgraded the mope to a grin-grimace.

Or maybe he felt bad for me because Maya was having a full blown exorcism in the driveway, and he figured he'd give me a little break. In any event, I just realized that I love the word grimace. I'm going to look it up right now.

Wait, remember him?

Grimace is a large, purple anthropomorphic being of indeterminate species with short arms and legs. He is known for his slow-witted demeanor. His most common expression is the word "duh". Originally, Grimace was the "Evil Grimace", with two pairs of arms with which to steal milkshakes. After that first campaign, the character was revised to be one of the "good guys", and his number of arms was reduced by two. Commercials and merchandise generally portrayed him as a well-meaning simpleton, whose clumsy antics provided a comic foil to Ronald McDonald. The character was retained after the streamlining of the characters in the '80s. (Wikipedia)

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Amelle has developed some very distinct facial expressions recently. I think this might have flown through my DNA, from my dad.

This is "what the heck?"

This is "ewww...that's dee-scusting!"

This one is "Gross! ..but also, check out my press on nails"

This one is "I'm beyond disgusted" (she doesn't actually say that, she just thinks it). She doesn't usually say anything when she's this disgusted, in fear that she'll open her mouth to speak and vomit will come out.